The rising moon finds a clear sky. A few stars manage to compete, but lunar brightness leaves most of them washed out. Chill air discourages the frogs, and they do not sing. A few more days and they'll return. For now, the only sound is the hollow hum of passing cars, the rush of their tires on drying pavement so like the sound of distant surf that the beach is conjured to my mind.
I woke late again, despite the bright sunlight. My head feels stuffy again, too. I'd thought that the rains would have washed away all the pollen, but apparently they have not.
Another piece of the computer has arrived, but is useless without the parts that are somewhere in the limbo of the delivery system. Commerce dribbles. It is incontinent.